A Sacrifice to the God of Prophecy
by bulletproofbears
Summary: Weren't all their lives in his hands?


**Hey guys! I posted once and then disappeared, I know. I suppose if you want to be a good writer, never roleplay on Tumblr. It will ruin you. This is just a short little drabble that I told someone I'd write, and I figured I'd post here too. So... here goes nothing! Reviews would make me a happy camper, just throwing that out there. **

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Enjolras wasn't sure how he got there, in the first place.

Of course, Grantaire always was hard to keep track of. He was quiet, never bothered to tell anyone where he was going. He would get some idea in his head; grumble to himself under his breath, and off he'd go. Beyond that, his constant drunkenness meant logic was hardly ever any part of his decision making. That's how he'd always been though, and so Enjolras was used to it. If he happened to notice the man was out of his sight, he just assumed he was inside the café, drinking, or passed out already. It didn't bother him. The café was on their side of the barricade, he should have at least been safe there.

The soldiers had him by the shoulders, with his arms tied behind his back. There was a gun with a long barrel pressed against his temple, and Enjolras was dumbfounded. The general, who stood in front of his ranks, growled something at his captive. He gave a quick answer. The general shouted, "Enjolras!"

Enjolras calculated quickly, trying to ignore the burning stares of his friends. If he were to walk out from behind the barricade, he was an open target to every single soldier on the ranks. But to shoot him, wouldn't they have to shoot at their general, as well? Besides, that was not how business was conducted. He considered sending someone else out for him- the revolution simply couldn't run without him, after all- but that was bad form. Without saying a word to anyone, and sure to take his pistol with him, Enjolras climbed up the barricade and stood atop it, showing himself to the National Guard.

When he appeared there, no one moved. His was a presence that did not have to be seen; it was felt, large and golden and righteous. He stood atop a pile of furniture, a scowl of determination on his face. It stunned everyone for a second. Grantaire stopped struggling against the two men holding him back, and stared up at him with the rest of the men before the barricade. His eyes were wide, but Enjolras could not determine the expression there. They held eye contact for a moment, before the general spoke up again.

"In the name of France," said he, "In the name of the king, we give you at the barricade this option. Do not waste lives on a childish game. Surrender now, and we shall give you back your friend."

Still, Enjolras said nothing as he thought. They were trying to trade a life for their revolution? Do not waste lives, they said. Were they trying to… _teach them a lesson?_ His blood ran hotter with rage. If this were simply a game, the National Guard wouldn't feel the need to take hostages. They wouldn't have tried to blow up the barricade, or shoot a little boy looking for bullets, or aimed ominous cannons at them, and they wouldn't be bargaining for an end to the fighting now. It was from this thought that Enjolras drew his passion, and his confidence. He couldn't surrender. In his mind, there was still a chance.

But for Grantaire, there was no chance.

He turned from glaring at the general, back to his friend. Grantaire's eyes still had not left his face; he looked up to him through his sentencing. Suddenly, it occurred to him what the expression on his face was: complete and utter calm. A still water. In the face of death, he did not tremble. Enjolras began to think that maybe Grantaire listened to his speeches about bravery more than he realized. The captive nodded, and the message was clear: _do what you must._

He could feel judgmental eyes burning him from behind the barricade as time dragged on. His friends, his comrades. They would not understand, and a few might lose faith in him for this. But he knew, no matter what, they needed a strong leader to hold their flag higher with every obstacle. Even when a man's life was in his hands.

Weren't all of their lives in his hands?

To lose Grantaire, that would be a shame. A tragedy, even. But to save his friend was to condemn himself, his cause, and the people of Paris whom he fought for, even when they turned from him.

"In the name of France," said he, "In the name of the people, we shall never surrender."

With a crack, the body dropped unceremoniously to the mud.

It was one bullet, swift, and to the head. Enjolras had heard somewhere that a shot to the head kills instantly, before you can even feel it. This was his only solace.


End file.
